


Stupid Shit to Never be Done

by mrs_schoolweek



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Injury, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Movie(s), Seduction, Very Secret Diary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 16:07:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4186212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_schoolweek/pseuds/mrs_schoolweek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Major Kalashnikov and colonel Moore as young para-military, post-apocalyptic brothers-in-arms. Kalashnikov hurts his leg, Moore finds his secret notebook and they end up doing things neither of them thought they'd never do. And they enjoy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stupid Shit to Never be Done

**Author's Note:**

> I just can't stop writing about these guys. This is made for a kinkmeme prompt: The Bullet Farmer (Kalashnikov) going smutty.  
> No excuses, I just like this a lot.

Major Kalashnikov had had a list in his notebook for years now. It was his secret pastime he entertained himself with during long watch shifts. Mostly just to avoid falling asleep. It was titled "Stupid shit to never be done."  
There was certainly at least one thing missing from the list: walking staight to a trapping pit. One chill thursday morning (while carelessly dreaming of his favourite antique weapons from 1870's and earlier) he did just that. World went black.

"You're one lucky son of a bitch", greeted Moore's irritating voice before Kalashnikov even got his eyes properly open. He felt like shuffling through a swamp of pudding.  
"Go to hell, Moore. It's your watch", Kalashnikov groaned and tried to dive deeper into his sleeping bag. Fuk-ushima, what? He wasn't in his sleeping bag!?  
"Dear god", he prayed in his mind: "please don't make me wake up on the weapon trunk again."  
"It's nobody's watch. Just get up and I'll give you more meds", Moore sighed. Meds? Kalashnikov opened his eyes slowly and closed them again when harsh fluorescent tubes nearly blinded him. A generator made constant throbbing noice somewhere nearby. He smelled iodine and copper.  
"You fell to a trapping pitt, major. For god's sake, just get up already."  
Moore's hands grabbed his shoulders and hauled him up roughly, to sitting position against a wall. Kalashnikov groaned. Trapping pitt? Well it fuku-felt like that too! His leg felt like shit.  
"We gave you some morphine on spot. I sent the boys back to work after patching you up. Asked them to bring you back more if they find any", Moore informed and shoved a water bottle to his slack hand.  
"You got to do with water and ibuprofein for now."

The injury was surprisingly clean. Sharp spike in, sharp spike out, dislocated ankle and fractured shinbone. Hurt like a little bitch, of course, but would heal just fine with antibiotics and good bandagework. Which Kalashnikov would of course get, Moore's best weapons expert he was. His leg was neatly bandaged from knee down and stong-looking splints held it in place.  
"Where are my pants?" Kalashnikov asked after a while of drinking water and swallowing impractically large painkiller tablets. Moore's brow furrowed.  
"Norton promised to get you new ones", he said, avoiding Kalashnikov's eyes. That wasn't enough.  
"I don't want Norton's pants, fuk-ushima. I want my own pants", the injured man demanded, hands twitchy:  
"850 grams of good quality tactical canvas, size M, eight ammo pockets and two pockets for other equipment, stainless steel zipper... My pants, Moore. Now."  
This was one of those days, allright. Joe Moore sighed and sat onto a wooden chair next to Kalashnikov.  
"I am sure they were great pants, major, and they protected you from a much larger injury getting stuck to the edge like that. But you have to realize we cut you off those damn spikes and hauled back here under gunfire. Your pants are officially KIA."  
The look on Kalashnikov's face was a perfect mixture of agony and pure fury.  
"They are my pants! My things are in the pockets of my goddamn pants!"  
Joe shook his head and sighed:  
"I know you can be a dangerous maniac, Kalashnikov. Especially when drugged and hurt. Now please, breathe for a while and listen to me. I am not stupid enough to leave your things behind. You'd go full berserk."  
"Yes, I would", Kalashnikov muttered and closed his eyes.  
"Now let me sleep, Moore."

When major Kalashnikov slowly slipped back to consciousness, morphine gradually leaving his system, Moore was still sitting next to him.  
”Good evening”, he mutterd and returned, chuckling, to his literary activities. Oh shit. Kalashnikow knew that notebook. His notebook. The cover was damaged (likely from his own blood) but that was definetly his. 7 mm/ 7mm grids, 50 pages full of infeasible, dumb ideas. And now Moore had it.  
”Open a spam can with small explosive? Why, Kalashnikov?” Joe asked before he managed to come up with any plan.  
”Can of fruits wouldn't smell half as bad. Also, spam is more solid, blows up better”, Kalashnikov sighed and took a more comfortable position on his styrofoam ”mattress”. Joe grunted:  
”Very well. I knew you were crazy anyway...”  
After a moment of silence Kalashnikov forced himself to sit up and reach his hand for the notebook.  
”Enough, Moore. That's personal”, he said and grabbed one corner of the notebook. Joe still held the other one.  
”I could tell that much, Kalashnikov. Really? You want me to fuck you? Wouldn't have guessed, not that it bothers me”, he laughed. Kalashnikov went pale and his hand dropped.  
”I... what?” he groaned. Moore laughed even more, turning pages:  
”Yeah, right here... 'Ask colonel Moore to pound my ass with his fat cock.' That's what your own notebook says. What, that fall injured your memory too?”  
Kalashnikov was so damn humiliated he could barely speak.  
”Moore, the title of that notebook says 'Stupid Shit to Never be Done'. That means I'm never going to ask you such thing”, he mumbled, looking at his pale, bare toes to avoid Joe's eyes. Moore fell silent and glanced the cover.  
”Oh, I see... Well, technically this says just 'r be Done' at the moment”, he stated. True. Blood stain had hidden over a half of the title. Kalashinikov's face was cherry red. He had forgot his aching leg completely.  
”So... what are you into then, Kalashnikov? Haven't seen you fuck anybody, ever I guess. Do you fuck?” Moore tried, mostly just to pass time. Rest of the group wasn't likely to come back before sunset, he was bored and it was dangerous to let Kalashnikov dwell in grumpiness and pain alone.  
”Which kind of acts of intimacy do you count?” Kalashnikov asked, surprisingly calm.  
”Fucking. Come on, you know what I mean. Fucking”, Joe chuckled. God Kalashnikow was weird sometimes. Always.  
”If you mean this whole 'pounding with fat cock' thing, Moore... No, I don't fuck much”, Kalashnikov answered and pressed his palm against his forehead. Must be real exotic for Moore to think about that. The man himself seemed to hump anything and everything, like a dog. A tall, sinewy, charismatic dog...  
”You can't be serious, Kalashnikov. Everybody fucks. Is it that you like men? Come on, nobody'd even notice if you fucked one of the new recruits. Everybody fucks them”, Joe laughed.  
”Even you?”, Kalashnikov's voice was sharp and crafty. Hell, the whole man was one crafty creep, Joe thought. Calculating and a little mad, always ready to execute dangerous missions and do things his other men didn't dare to try.  
”Me? Sure, if there are not women available. Why? You're interested afterall?”


End file.
